


Ice: Sometimes it burns

by Eorendel



Series: These Spies Are Always Chasing (Es Su Onda) [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Awesome Napoleon, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Illya, Friendship/Love, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Gunshot Wounds, Illya takes care of Napoleon, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Trouble In Paradise, Wilderness can be scary, fluff and comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7394356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eorendel/pseuds/Eorendel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under any threat the only haven is with each other.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"The snow crunched under his boots, the cold seeping through his clothes. He was barely dressed for the journey, but he didn't have any other choice. Napoleon didn't have time to choose the proper attire - being ambushed at gunpoint did that to people."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice: Sometimes it burns

**Author's Note:**

> All the love to [TheVeilwalkerWitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeilwalkerWitch/)

The snow fell in clumps, the darkening sky barely visible, and the chilling breeze of the night had ebbed; it no longer punished Napoleon's face with its cold embrace, but even if the gentle breeze turned into a storm Napoleon would still walk through the path towards the cabin Illya told him about.

The snow crunched under his boots, the cold seeping through his clothes. He was barely dressed for the journey, but he didn't have any other choice. Napoleon didn't have time to choose the proper attire - being ambushed at gunpoint did that to people.

He miraculously escaped though; that and some more altercations with the members of THRUSH, when UNCLE was compromised earlier that month – a little bit after the CIA promised to take him back to their "side" by any means necessary. The little chill the cold weather gave him, at this point, was of little to no concern for Napoleon. He wasn't quite sure what he was he going to do after he reached the cabin, there were too many variables to consider and he didn't have the fortitude to analyze them at the moment. Napoleon moved with one single idea in mind: get to Illya.

As he walked through the woods, with only a flashlight and a backpack in his possession, Napoleon recalled his time serving in the army, the trenches, the mud, the blood. There was something grittier and poignant about fighting in the army as a soldier than doing so as a spy. But if asked, Napoleon would immediately go back to being a professional acquisitor.

Suddenly, he heard a noise in the distance, a branch snapping.

Napoleon stopped walking and the noise stopped with him. Napoleon carefully pulled out his Colt and resumed his path. Of one thing he was sure, what followed him wasn't human.

It was hard to say if it was a blessing or a curse. On one hand, if it was a person he was going to get shot, if it was a wolf he was probably going to get eaten; it was death either way. How violently delightful.

Fortunately, Napoleon knew he was close. His pace didn't change, neither the snapping of branches as he advanced, nor the painful throb on his side where he had probably ripped out his sutures again. Maybe he was bleeding out and that's why the wolves were following, or maybe he was simply hallucinating because he was too tired of everything that had happened that week.

And then, like the light of a beacon piercing through the mist of a raging storm over the sea, Napoleon saw the warm welcoming light of the cabin in the distance.

Despite him walking like a proper soldier all the way from the frontier to here, Napoleon stumbled the last couple of steps. He knew Illya had heard that but he strangely didn't care; if he had, then Illya had gained the rights to call Napoleon clumsy; on the contrary, he might actually be looking forward to the teasing the Russian might throw at him.

He straightened up at the front steps, shaking the snow that had clustered on his shoulders. He raised his hand to knock on the door, intent on using the combination they had discussed before, but the door opened before he could do so.

Illya stood there with a soft-looking sweater. The light of the fireplace ate the shadows beyond the threshold where Napoleon stood.

"Why, hello there. I thought I was supposed to knock first? What if I were a THRUSH agent? You'd be dead by now—" he paused "—never mind, you'd probably only have a flesh wound at worst while your opponents, bleeding on the snow, would be eaten by wolves. I have a couple of the furry kind following me, by the way."

Illya didn't say anything. Instead he grabbed Napoleon by the arm and pulled him inside. Then, checking the perimeter with a cursory glance, Illya slammed the door shut.

Napoleon exhaled a quiet breath of relief. He shivered involuntarily and glanced at Illya, who was watching him intently. Napoleon was about to say something – probably sarcastic  – when Illya made his way to the adjacent room. Napoleon frowned, puzzled. It wasn't the first time Illya confused him with his behavior.

Napoleon went near to fireplace and tried to warm up, rubbing his hands together and finally crossing his arms across his chest. After a few moments, Illya appeared once again in the room. Napoleon paid him no mind, the usual string of polite talk Napoleon liked to annoy Illya with forgotten by the cold.

But in the next second a thick blanket, one of those that look hideous but happen to be incredibly good at keeping warmth, was wrapped over his shoulders. A pair of big hands rubbing up and down his arms surprised him. The action itself felt comforting and Napoleon realized that he craved for it, quite badly, so he kept his mouth shut.

Napoleon wasn't about to ruin the moment - rare as it was - by commenting on how strange was Illya's actions towards him. He expected Illya to be nice to Gaby and maybe small kittens, but towards Napoleon? That was a resolute no.

Napoleon didn't know how long he basked in the sensation of finally feeling warm, and daresay, cared for. He wasn't aware of Illya's hands wandering down his waist until it was too late. He flinched away from the touch – with Illya's strength and all, even if he was being gentle, it hurt.

"Ah yes, sorry, I forgot about my unfortunate injury. Don't take it personal, Peril." He said lightly, vaguely thinking that he should have checked it quite a while ago.

Illya thought the same apparently. "Speak."

Napoleon was prepared to dodge the order, because it was a story, quite frankly tawdry and boring. But Illya's frown, the one that looked murderous and deadly but that Gaby and Napoleon had come to known as a sign of concern, won over his rebelliousness.

"Three days ago, after our last call. Two guys were following me, it turned out they were three. It's alright now." The last bit meant they were dead: _be happy, Peril!_ "I might be bleeding out a bit, though."

Napoleon wasn't sure why he said the last part. Illya glared at him and Napoleon finally understood why. It was unusual to be pampered and Illya seemed in the mood of giving indulgences, so Napoleon – staying true to his instincts – was completely ready to take advantage of it.

It turned out that three of his sutures did rip out and a small patch of blood had totally ruined his undershirt. Surprisingly, Napoleon wasn't concerned about his shirt at the moment. Illya's hands, mostly used to destroy, were efficiently taking care of Napoleon's problem; rough fingertips gently dabbed tender flesh.

They weren't that different in height but Napoleon had never stared down at Illya. Napoleon had always wondered about the story behind the scar on his brow. He opened his mouth but didn't ask that.

"Why are you worrying?"

It came out a little breathy and softer than Napoleon would have liked; he hated the tone of uncertainty blended in each word.

Illya didn't stop his task. He secured the wound firmly, perfectly. His hands remained on the gauze that covered Napoleon's middle. He looked up at Napoleon, and held his gaze. He tapped a finger twice over Napoleon's good side.

"I'm not sure." Illya finally answered, not looking away. "Does it bother you?"

It didn't, but he didn't say anything. Instead, Napoleon hung his head and sighed, "I'm cold."

Illya retrieved the ugly blanket, wrapping it once more around Napoleon. He started doing the same thing again, rubbing up and down over Napoleon's arms, careful of the wound, comforting them both in the silence of the winter night.


End file.
